


Everyone Can See It

by SuperImposed



Series: Kinkfills: Happy Smut Edition [5]
Category: MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: (a little), Also somewhat dubcon-sounding dialogue, Anal Sex, Biting, Bloody stuff, Carapaces, Carapeople, Clawing, Cutting Clothes Off, Knifeplay, M/M, Pre-robo-arm Slick, Rough Sex, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperImposed/pseuds/SuperImposed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Problem Sleuth/Spades Slick (bottom!Slick please)</p><p>After several meetings and skirmishes, the hard boiled detective Problem Sleuth and the notorious mobster Spades Slick develop what amounts to severe crushes on each other.</p><p>However, this development is painfully obvious to everyone but them and every subsequent meeting inevitably dissolves into bitching and scuffles and a complete disregard for the task at hand.</p><p>After countless incidents the PS team and the Midnight crew are pretty sick of their leaders acting like retards whenever they see each other so they collaborate in getting them in bed together using a mutual need to infiltrate the Felt's mansion as an opportunity.</p><p>bonus for some of the Felt members walking in on PS and SS while they're going at it. more points for confused felt members throughout the whole course of the event."</p><p>Kink Meme Prompt, slightly altered for AO3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Problems, Sleuths, Solutions

**Author's Note:**

> Original Kinkmeme prompt: http://homesmut.livejournal.com/5183.html?thread=3050047#t3050047  
> Updated Kinkmeme prompt: http://homesmut.livejournal.com/9406.html?thread=16031678#t16031678
> 
> (TRIGGER WARNING: Upon reviewing the fic recently, I realized that some of the dialogue and actions imply nonconsensual (dubcon if you prefer) situations. This was not my intention - it's supposed to be interaction between snarky, frustrated, difficult people. I've tried to alter the content but I am providing fair warning in case of triggers.)

"This is getting ridiculous," Droog muttered, voice still clipping off words neatly despite his exhaustion. And annoyance.

Lots of annoyance.

Boxcars nodded. He didn't say much, but neither did he need to. Even Deuce knew what they were talking about.

Kind of.

"Yeah! If Slick and Sleuth keep fighting like this we're never gonna get anything done!" The tiny caraperson grabbed the seat of a stool, hopping up into it after a few tries. He set his hands on his knees, looking for all the world like an irritated child.

Droog sighed and popped out a cancer stick, barely remembering to check for their smoke-intolerant leader before lighting up. "Fighting isn't...quite the word I'd use."

Clubs Deuce blinked. "Isn't that what they're doing, though?"

Droog took a pull at the cigarette before slipping his fingers around it and using the hand to gesture. "Not exactly more like..." His eyes opened thoughtfully. "You ever have a girl you like, Deuce?"

"Uhhh, once! She was pretty and had a really cool hat!" He trailed off, eyes dropping. "But she was from Prospit so....ummm....I kinda picked her pocket." he mumbled.

Droog shrugged - he'd long since stopped caring about carapace colors and alliances. That was the past. "That's kind of what I meant, actually. Some guys have a girl they like, don't know how to show it, so they pick on her. She may not like them, but at least she _remembers_ them."

Deuce’s big eyes got bigger. "OH," he said, and then managed to stay focused for once. "So Slick is always fighting Sleuth so.....so Sleuth'll remember him?"

Droog took another drag at the smoke. "Right."

"Cuz he likes him?"

Droog nodded. "Got it."

"And Sleuth fights back cuz he likes Slick?"

Droog choked on smoke. After a brief coughing fit, he looked back at the damnably innocent gangster. "What...what makes you say that?" _He'd_ never read things that way. He just thought Sleuth was irritatingly focused on justice.

Hearts gave a rare, deep chuckle. "You thought it was one-sided?"

Droog stared at their biggest member. "You gotta be kiddin' me," he managed, losing control of his usually refined speech. "How the hell'd I miss _that_?"

Deuce giggled. "Thinking about it like that, it makes perfect sense! Slick likes Sleuth and Sleuth like Slick and they both fight cuz they're shy!"

Droog didn't even notice the cigarette drop from his fingers. _Shy_ was not a word he'd use to describe Slick. Ever. "M-maybe," he managed, cool facade blown away.

Deuce looked pensive. "But wait....Slick is a guy....and Sleuth is a guy....or maybe Sleuth's a girl?"

Boxcars chuckled again. "Some guys just like guys, Deuce."

"Oh."

Droog frowned as he recovered the cigarette, putting it out and trashing it. "Point is, it's getting in the way of us doing business. Can't have that." When his companions just exchanged glances, he continued. "What do we do about it?"

Deuce piped up. "We could, uh, kill Problem Sleuth?"

Droog facepalmed. "And get Slick even more pissed off that usual?"

Boxcar rolled his expansive shoulders. "Why not just set them up?"

Diamonds Droog stared at the massive carapace. "You're joking, right?"

Deuce clapped his hands. "Ooh, I like THAT idea a lot better!"

Droog cradled his now-throbbing cranium. What had he done?

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“You want to WHAT?”

==> 3/4s of the Midnight Crew and 2/3s of Sleuth Co.: Collaborate.

Droog frowned at Dick. “I’m not saying this because I _want to_ ,” he said coolly, ignoring the squat man’s irritation. “But they’re causing us - both of us - all kinds of trouble. If we can get them out of the way, and they can get their feelings out of the way, then we can go back to business as usual.”

Pickle Inspector interjected here. “But Problem Sleuth will not want to fight you, don’t you think,” he said, in that soft, pale voice of his, “and I’m not certain Spades Slick will want to fight us. But we will be on opposite sides of the law.”

Droog shrugged. “I’ve seen Slick juggle more complicated situations,” he said, “and if you and Sleuth can’t put your collectively high Imagination score together and find a way to balance fighting and not fighting...”

Ace Dick growled. “So what do we do, then? Not like it’ll make ‘em any worse,” he added, in response to a number of incredulous looks.


	2. Really stupid solutions

==> ¼ of the Midnight Crew and ⅓ of Sleuth Co.: Escape your current predicament.

No dice. And you mean that in the literal-ish sense, not the Felt Member sense.

The two of you - that’s Problem Sleuth and Spades Slick - are no closer to escaping this damn closet than you were an hour ago. Perhaps the two of you should have been a little more suspicious when your valued partners/noisy meatshields concocted this whole plan. But why the hell would they wait until you were all the way to the Mansion before locking you in a small room together and pulling a disappearing act?

==> This double perspective grows tiresome. Be Spades Slick.

You are now Spades Slick, scourge of Midnight City and prime figure of the nightmares of many of its denizens. You are trapped in a four by four foot room with the derpiest detective in all of existence.

It doesn’t help that you have been furiously in ~~lo~~ _lust_ with the other occupant for several weeks now.

You realize that you are staring at his back and instead return to staring at the door. The force of your glare has knocked many a man flat, but the stubborn, oblivious, knife-scarred plank of wood has resisted your best efforts.

You’re still talking about the door, of course.

Problem Sleuth turns to you, in that slow, smooth way that you know he’s doing so he looks like some ridiculous noir figure, and cocks his hat. Again, noir.

“So,” he says, in that stupid, utterly fuckable way of his, “any ideas?”

You affect a cocky smirk. “I thought _you_ were supposed to be the one to sleuth out the solutions to problems.” Your unusual wordiness is immediately rewarded with an ~~ador~~ idiotic blush.

==> Be Problem Sleuth.

You can handle that - have every day of your life. Or, at least, your life since assuming the moniker.

Unfortunately, this might be the day - or night - you have to give up the title. For someone gifted at dealing with weird puzzle shit, a single thickness of wood has you totally stumped. You’re not sure if you mean the door, or the unrelenting black hole of humor that is Spades Slick. He only smiles when nobody else can.

You scowl at the problematic portal in the most hardboiled way possible. Nothing happens except for a wood chip falling out of one of the knife marks.

The damn thing has to be at least two inches thick, maybe more. And while you appreciate that your team didn’t stuff you into a complete matchbox of a closet, any space shared with the notorious gangster is too small.

You evaluate the door once more, and then decide that there is only one possible - and incredibly gritty and hardcore - way to open it.

 

==> Be Slick. Boggle at shenanigans.

You don’t boggle, but you are snickering a little as Sleuth grabs his shoulder, trying not to show you how much pain he’s in. He didn’t seriously think he was going to take the door down, did he?

He probably did. He’s ~~cute~~ stupid like that.

He glares at you. “Well, then, _you_ try, if you’re so tough.”

You roll your eyes. “What, and pop out my shoulder for no good reason? Even I ain’t strong enough for that. Why do you think I keep that stupid lump around?”

He eyes you. “You mean Deuce, Droog, or Boxcars? Cuz you say the same thing about all three.”

He’s grinning a little, like he knows you, and that makes your razor teeth grind in irritation. Smug bastard. You’ll show him.

==> Be the smug bastard.

You sure do like to get Slick riled up. It’s just so - _cute_. One guy can call another guy cute and remain secure in his manhood. Carapacehood. Whatever.

Maybe you riled him a little _too_ much, if the scowl on his face and the retrieval of a knife is any indication.

He stomps up to you and presses the point against your sore shoulder, leaning behind the arm without putting weight on it. “You think I ain’t hard enough to take on a bitty slab a’ wood?” He gestures towards the door with his knife hand, scowling so hard that you’re surprised his shelled face is wrinkle-free.

You straighten and quirk a brow. “You _do_ realize how that sounds, right?” 

He snarls. “Go suck a dick, Sleuth,” he growls, which is not helping your sexual-tension-addled brain. Bad enough to have a totally-platonic-not-gay-at-all mancrush on a notorious gangster _without_ getting stuck in a small space with him spitting innuendo at you.

 

==> Be the innuendo-spitter.

You’re not spitting innuendo! And even if you are, it’s this idiot’s fault! He started it by being so...charming.

 _Annoying!_ He’s _annoying_ , that’s all! He makes you want to toss a deckful of knives at him, makes you want to punch that smug, inferior snout, makes you want to grab his tie and yank close to your screaming maw like you’re doing right now and-

_-oh shit the fucker just kissed you._


	3. Violence and Idiocy

==> Be the stunned kisser.

Oh, you are. Slick was acting more or less totally normal (for Slick) but then he was pulling you in and your hormonal and frustrated body overrode your brain because you _could not deal_ with that final level of inadvertent intimacy.

Instead of pulling away, you grip his lapels and bring him closer.

He sputters and pushes you (or possibly draws you in - it’s hard to tell right now); you just tighten your iron grip, mashing your mouths together with fervor. Your wrists are bleeding, the tips of his claws red, and you do not even give a single fuck.

He finally kicks you away, creating a brief moment for an air break, before launching himself at you and resuming. Your tie gets yanked at until he loses patience and actually cuts it off, and while Spades Slick holding a blade near your throat would normally be a pants-pissing excursion, you only feel turned on.

 _Extremely_ turned on.

You cut your mouth on his teeth and at some point he got his claws on your face (for the love of fuck, when did your eyelids start bleeding?), and you think it’s only fair to pay the knife-wielding psycho back in turn.

 

==> Be the knife-wielding psycho.

Ten seconds ago, that would be an unconscious decision. It’s a bit more difficult now that Sleuth has disarmed you, pinned your wrists on the floor above your head, and is now brandishing a straight razor with a smile better suited to your mouth.

Your pants are way too tight right now.

 

==> Be the _other_ knife wielding psycho.

Technically, you’re the only knife-wielding psycho right now. Well, the only one in this closet. Anything outside of it suddenly and totally falls under the category of not important.

You notice the sudden, _very hard_ bump against your thigh, and take the appropriate and obvious action.

Slick whines like a baby, even though you didn’t so much as scratch his carapace with the blade.

He changes tune when you rub your knee against the shelled length, leaning his head back and groaning. You bend down to kiss him again, blood dripping off your face and dozens of other wounds you don’t remember acquiring, staining the green floorboards.

 

==> Be the compliant bitch.

 _ **Like hell**_ oh _fuck_ that feels good, how does he do that.

Sleuth is a sloppy kisser, all romantic passion mixed with the same hormonal need that’s driving you, and it isn’t long before you’re both shuffling out of your pants, Sleuth momentarily releasing his hold of you. Technically you could just lay back and let him cut the rest of your clothes off, and tempting as the idea is, you’re vaguely aware of a need to appear in control.

So you sit up and unbuckle his belt, the detective already shrugging off his trenchcoat and draping it playfully over your shoulders. You sneer and attack the buttons of his shirt, stripping the white garment off as quickly as your suddenly clumsy fingers can manage.

You swear the idiot is _trying_ to slow you up, hands tangling in yours as you try to wrench off his pants, and when you catch his eye, you realize that it’s intentional.

“Bastard,” you hiss, finally divesting him of the damn things, underwear going with it. He chuckles, leaning over and kissing you, and when he sits back you realize he reached behind you to retrieve your hat, plopping it back onto your head.

He smiles for a moment, before becoming contemplative. “Got any lube in that chest a’ yours?”

Oh. Fuck. Lube, yeah, gonna need that. You scramble for cards, hoping against hope that you somehow packed a tube away - like you expect _that_ much ‘alone time’ on a job, hardly - and growl in frustration when you produce none.

You glare at the unprepared idiot in front of you. “You?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (One of the more heavily-edited parts. Apologies for the problematic language. I'd be grateful for good alternatives.)


	4. Prepared

==> Be the unprepared idiot.

Who on this moon is prepared to fuck Spades Slick?

You don’t have anything of the sort in your inventory, and you sit back with a sigh, resigned to handjobs which at this point are _just not enough_ \- and your foot clacks against something.

Slick reaches around you and retrieves a bottle of... candy-corn flavored lube.

What.

The fuck.


	5. Bloody Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This is one of the more triggery parts - I've tried altering a bit, but I may have to go back and rewrite it entirely.)

==> Be the one holding candy-flavored lube.

It’s a low point in your life when that refers not just to you, but anyone within fifty miles of you.

Sleuth, genius that he is, sits there dumbfounded as you start ranting. “Those bastards- they- from the start- _I’m gonna kill them!_ ”

He presses a finger to your mouth (and a hand to your lap), and you realize, oh hey, he already got it, he just decided not to care in favor of dealing with your respective raging boners.

Yeah, you can handle that.

You open the tube with fingers that most certainly do not shake, spilling some of the repulsive orange substance on your hand. Being the most hardboiled gangster on the moon, you do not wince at the rather disgusting texture. You’ve cut men open and squeezed their organs til they died. A little lube is nothing.

You look at your soon-to-be-fucked partner, trying to gauge his reaction.

 

==> Be the soon-to-be-fucked partner.

You can’t do that, because you are currently Problem Sleuth, not Spades Slick! Who seems to think that he’s in control of the situation. You rectify this by grabbing his hand and applying it to your crotch, and suddenly just handjobs seems like a fine and dandy idea to you. _Fuck_ , that feels amazing.

Slick is looking at you with a puzzled expression, and it takes everything you have not to laugh. You place one of your hands on his hip, the other groping for the tube as the gangster dubiously pumps your cock.

Then you shove him onto his back.

He squawks slightly, glaring up at you with all the bloodlust he can (which currently is about as much as a sick puppy), as well as a little confusion. That fades the second you slick (heh) up your fingers and carefully nudge one inside him. The most feared mafioso in all of Midnight City mewls and twists under your hand.

“What-” he sputters, trying to muster up some venom as you crook the digit inside him, “what the fuck do you-”

“Exactly,” you say, all smooth and hardboiled, and he glares at you until a second finger finds its way in. A snarl leaves his mouth and the smaller man rakes your chest erratically. You let him, spreading your fingers until you can get a third inside, at which point Slick collapses back like a dead man.

“...Slick?” you ask, a little concerned at this point.

“...either keep going or shut the fuck up,” he mumbles, flopping one arm over his eyes, the other scraping up curls of floorboard.

Well okay then.


	6. Sexpulchritude

==> Be the one getting fucked.

Yeah, yeah. Spades Slick here at an all-time-low, live, for one night only! Anyone looking to laugh at you is going to get a set of razor fangs to the throat.

 

Except Problem Sleuth, who laughs like a fucking jazz angel, even if you want to maul him for making you bottom.

 

He bends a finger and you make a sound somewhere between a keen and an epithet, scratching at the wood floor like it’s an anchor.

You’re vaguely aware of the closet door being opened, a flash of green and red, and then a muffled slamming sound. But that easily fades away because Problem Sleuth just yanked out without warning, and you groan at the odd feeling of emptiness.

Your stupid-as-fuck partner fixes this immediately, by carefully shoving his lubed-up cock inside you.

He leans over you, kissing your mouth and arm, chuckling slightly; all you can see of him is a flash of white shell and red blood.

The detective pauses for a moment, letting you get used to the admittedly weird-as-fuck feeling, before drawing out and then slamming back in. You groan and wrap an arm around him, the other hand clamping your hat down.

The bastard normally acts like a bitchy little virgin, who knew he was a fucking sex god?

 

==> Be the fucking sex god.

You’re not all _that_ but Slick seems to be taking it well so you can handle feeling a _little_ self-congratulatory.

You even handled the intrusion well, not even pausing when you turned to look at your unintentional voyeurs/rescuers and smoothly intoning, “Can I help you? I kind of have my hand full at the moment...” The look on Crowbar’s face was one to treasure.

Slick’s groaning louder and louder under you, claws scrabbling and remarking you again and again as his as you fuck him harder and harder. You worry that it's too rough for even _Slick_ , but he keeps repeating stuff like 'if you stop I'll kill you' so you guess he's okay. He growls at one particularly hard thrust, and you're done. The world blurs into light and colors and you stiffen, then slump against him.

All you want to do is curl up and sleep, but Slick is making bitchy noises under you, and you can still feel his need jabbing against your stomach. Your roll over (pulling out as you do so), reach to the side to grab him, and pump with still-slick (that will never not be funny) fingers until he’s coming as hard as you had.

In a few moments you’re going to have to get dressed, and there’s probably going to be hell to pay, but right now you really don’t care.


	7. Lucky Number

==> Be the traumatized Felt.

You, Fin, Trace, and Stitch are the only ones to have survived the onslaught. You’re all huddling in one of the ninth’s back-up effigy rooms.

Stitch hands you and the others cups of tea; he thinks your reaction is from the slaughter, which though atypical, he accepts.

But it was something far more horrible that has you mortified right now.

The three of you are never going to be the same again.


End file.
